


Reconciliation

by tissaias_piglet



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Feels, Gen, Mentions of Canonical Character Death, Mentions of PTSD and trauma, More feels than I anticipated, Philippa is Soft TM, The Witcher 2 Spoilers, The Witcher 3 Spoilers, friendship?, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tissaias_piglet/pseuds/tissaias_piglet
Summary: Set after the final battle in the Witcher 3. Yennefer is having difficulty accepting what happened, and wants to see Tor Gvalch’ca for herself. Geralt is understandably not so keen to return there. Enter an unlikely ally...Silence stretched. Yennefer and Geralt glared at one another, neither willing to back down.“I will go with her,” Philippa said suddenly and shortly, with the air of someone trying to get something unpleasant over with quickly.There are mega spoilers for Witcher 3, obviously!
Kudos: 7





	Reconciliation

**Author's Note:**

> There are spoilers here for the Witcher 3 game (and briefly for Witcher 2). Don't read on if you don't want to know how the game ends (in at least one of the endings)! Having played Witcher 3 is also super super helpful to understand the full context and a lot of the references.
> 
> This also contains mention of canonical character death (Sheala), mentions of torture and abuse in prison (Sheala, Rita), and some form of trauma/PTSD after torture (Rita), but none of these are the main part of the story.
> 
> It's the first time I've really tried to concentrate on putting a lot of description into a fic, so I hope it's okay :)

“I want to go, I need to see for myself,” Yennefer demanded, haughty as ever, expecting that her tame pet would bend to her wishes as always. The sharp wind tossed her hair wildly around her face, bringing the scent of it towards Philippa. She was quietly pleased to note that Yennefer’s usual scent of lilac and gooseberries had been smothered by the reek of sweat and death, and the lingering, sweetly charred scent of magic. Yennefer tapped her foot irritably as she waited for an answer.

“No, Yen,” the witcher said bluntly. Philippa pondered again on the cause of his taciturnity. Did he believe that speaking less allowed him to conserve energy, or was his vocabulary so limited that he didn’t wish to embarrass himself in conversation? Perhaps he really was as stupid as an ass, or perhaps he was not as enamoured with Yennefer and her desperately annoying habits as he liked to seem?

But what did it matter? It was no concern of hers. She wondered vaguely why she was still stood there, and then remembered they would almost certainly need Yennefer to smooth things over with var Emreis, given that their clemency had been granted based on their involvement in saving his daughter, and thus far, no one was exactly sure whether Cirilla had been saved or not. All they knew was that she was gone. That news didn’t exactly bode well for their meeting with the emperor.

“And who will stop me if I decide to go?” Yennefer snapped, shaking her head to try and dislodge her hair from her eyes and mouth. The wind really was vicious, even though the Wild Hunt had gone, slunk away with their tails between their legs. Philippa wondered whether Undvik was destined to live beneath an eternal winter. Certainly the settlements they had journeyed through had been broken and destroyed beyond habitation, roofs bowed in, walls shattered, animals killed. Of course, protecting Cirilla mattered more than any silly peasant village, mattered more, even, than their own lives – even hers, Philippa was loathe to admit – but it was unlikely the Skelligans would see it that way. More fucking sorcerers from the Continent, destroying their homes, scarring their lands with battle, and then disappearing without so much as a word of apology. Well, it wasn’t like being a magic-wielder made one a lot of friends even at the best of times, and especially not now, which is why they needed the accord with var Emreis so desperately.

Yennefer had evidently continued to press the point while Philippa had been musing to herself, for she looked frustrated, dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown, and the witcher looked grey and exhausted, although the same could surely be said of them all.

“Have you thought that it might be painful for me?” the witcher snapped suddenly, his voice a low growl. He was as close to angry as Philippa had ever seen him. At least, as close to angry at _Yennefer_ as she’d ever seen him. He’d seemed pretty angry when he was chasing her, Philippa, through the sewers after she escaped from Dijkstra, but that was neither here nor there. She’d always known that Geralt hated her, as surely as she knew the sun would set at night and rise in the morning. Given his habit of bedding sorceresses, and her total lack of interest in bedding either a man or a mutant, she’d always assumed that was the reason.

“I don’t care!” Yennefer snapped back, “I want to see for myself. Have _you_ thought that it might be painful for _me_ if I don’t get – if I’m _forbidden_ from getting – closure?”

The witcher looked almost despairingly at Philippa, desperation in his eyes as though begging her to intervene. She studiously looked in the other direction. She valued her life more than getting between Yennefer and her tame pet, although it amused her to see Geralt seeking her help when it was an open secret that he despised her. Still, she was far less emotionally invested than Triss was, which made her a much better choice. It was just a shame she had no desire to help. Triss was stood some distance off with Margarita and Fringilla, staring into the middle distance as though she couldn’t hear Yennefer and Geralt arguing. Unfortunately, between the carrying wind and Yennefer yelling, Philippa suspected the argument could probably be heard in Novigrad.

“If you won’t come then I’ll go alone,” Yennefer said, “I don’t need to be escorted like a child.” She turned away, her nose in the air, and, drawing her energy in, summoned a portal.

“Yen, no!” the witcher cried sharply, “it’s too dangerous.” He grabbed her arm, wrenching her back from the portal. “There’s too much residual power up there, it could disrupt the portal.”

If the air around Tor Gvalch’ca was charged with lingering energy and magic, it was nothing compared to how the air between Geralt and Yennefer simmered and crackled, heavy with anger and resentment and words unsaid. It made the hairs on the back of Philippa’s neck stand up.

“Then I shall walk there,” Yennefer said stubbornly, “by all the gods, Geralt, haven’t you known me long enough to know that you can’t stop me from doing something I’ve set my mind to?”

The witcher looked as though words had failed him. Of course, his natural instinct was to dismember – rather than debate with – anyone or anything which displeased him, but that wasn’t an option with Yennefer. Unfortunately, Philippa privately thought.

Silence stretched. Yennefer and Geralt glared at one another, neither willing to back down.

“I will go with her,” Philippa said suddenly and shortly, with the air of someone trying to get something unpleasant over with quickly. Yennefer snorted. “Don’t do that Yennefer, you sound like a horse,” Philippa chastised.

Yennefer’s eyes flashed with anger, and Philippa could not be certain whether it was at the insult or something else. “What interest does Tor Gvalch’ca hold for you?” she asked, “what could you possibly have to gain from coming with me?”

Philippa stepped forward slightly, in order to fully join the conversation without the need to scream over the biting wind. The witcher was staring at her too, and as always the feeling of those mutant eyes raking over her made her feel somewhat nauseous. She could sense Margarita, Triss, and Fringilla all looking at her too, perhaps wondering whether she’d sustained a blow to the head and was not in her right mind.

“Perhaps you have forgotten, Yennefer, but some among us must still go and prostrate ourselves before Emhyr var Emreis and beg for clemency – something which we’re now seeming vastly less likely to be granted in light of the fact that your witcher managed to let Cirilla slip through his fingers – and much as I am loathe to admit it, we require your assistance to ensure var Emreis keeps to his end of the bargain. I hardly need say that you cannot assist us if you are frozen to death, blown from the top of a mountain onto jagged rocks 200 feet below, or sprinkled in tiny pieces over the entire Skellige isles because of an errant portal. And so, one of us must escort you.” It was, by far, the longest (uninterrupted) speech she’d made in months, since before that bastard had trapped her in her fucking owl form.

Yennefer opened her mouth as if to interrupt, but Philippa held up a hand to silence her. She really was insufferable, and had never learned to give Philippa the respect she deserved as a sorceress or as the leader of the Lodge. Well, now she would listen.

“Margarita is still on the verge of collapse and is in no fit state to accompany you anywhere. Given recent events, I cannot imagine that sending you and Triss anywhere alone, with endless time to talk, and expecting you to rely on each other and help each other, is a good idea.” Triss squeaked indignantly behind her, but Philippa ignored the minor interruption. “And Fringilla, well...” She trailed off deliberately, letting them draw their own conclusions about Fringilla’s suitability – or otherwise – for the task. “Which leaves me, and if anything happens to you, I can fly back and tell Geralt,” she finished. From the witcher’s stare she deduced that her tone had been inappropriately cheerful at the idea of something bad happening to Yennefer, but what did it matter?

Yennefer seemed to be turning the proposal over in her mind. “And how do I know you won’t wait until we get to the tower and then push me off the edge of the mountain?” she asked, eyes narrowed behind the curtain of hair which had once again whipped into her face. She clearly knew that the thought would already have crossed Philippa’s mind.

“Oh, you don’t,” Philippa half-smiled, “and you know I don’t give two Nilfgaardian florens about you, but since you have no other option you’ll just have to trust me.” She paused for a moment, then added, “but if it’s any reassurance, I meant what I said about needing you to intervene with var Emreis on our behalf. So I suppose that means it’s in my best interests that you get back here alive and in one piece.” Rubbing her bare arms as the cold bit ever more into her skin – for the enchantment she’d cast was designed to work best when one was moving – she looked around as she waited for a response. It seemed very much like they were all stuck there until Yennefer had made her pilgrimage, for better or for worse, so she needed to do something, rather than just sitting, waiting, and freezing half to death.

Yennefer drew herself up to her full height, meeting Philippa’s gaze evenly – or as evenly as she could when Philippa’s gaze was obscured by a blindfold. “As I’m sure you no doubt intended, that offers me no reassurance at all,” she said, her voice gilded with a sugary sweet edge which did not mask the irritably behind it. Philippa smirked. “Well, if there are no better offers, we’ll be off.”

It was clear that she expected the witcher to relent at the last minute and offer to accompany her after all, and when he didn’t, a sour look crossed her face. “Let’s go,” she snapped at Philippa, making no effort to bid farewell to anyone, even Geralt, and began to walk, arms wrapped around herself.

They walked hurriedly through scenes of devastation the likes of which Philippa had never seen. Heaping piles of stone which had once been buildings, entire roofs torn off whole and strewn in trees, a blacksmith’s anvil sat in a crater in the path, as though it had been tossed in the air like it was no heavier than a leaf and then left to fall to the ground again. Boats upturned, marooned on the mountainside, or else crushed into nothing more than splinters.

And the bodies. Philippa did not consider herself to be a particularly sensitive person, but the sight was affecting her more than she’d expected. It was not so much the number of bodies, for she was no stranger to death and battlefields, but the manner in which they died. She felt the tiniest flicker of guilt as she looked over the wreckage.

The Skelligans hadn’t known they – or more precisely, the Wild Hunt – were coming; they’d done nothing at all to deserve such a fate except that they happened to share an island with Avallac’h’s preferred battleground. Of course it now seemed that Undvik was chosen because of its location close to the tower, which had been Avallac’h’s (and Cirilla’s) plan all along.

Philippa thought with a grim smile that she was beginning to understand why Sabrina Glevissig had hated elves so vehemently.

She wondered whether Yennefer was thinking about the devastation surrounding them, or whether her mind was focussed only on Cirilla. Yennefer was not someone who cared much about others, but then, Philippa reasoned, neither was she. So it was just possible that she was also feeling the needling guilt and regret.

The bodies were frozen, or crushed by wreckage, or tossed carelessly against rocks, whether by the violent winds or the jaws of a hound of the Wild Hunt, she couldn’t say. But all had been denied the dignity of a fight to the death, of the right to defend their homes and their families. They had lost their chance for the glory which came with fighting an invader and defending their land. Not that any such peasants had the slightest hope of besting the Hunt, for it had taken the combined power of five sorceresses, a witcher, an Elven sage, and... whatever one would class Cirilla as... to defeat them. Still, Philippa knew the importance of fighting and honour to Skelligans, and it didn’t seem right that they’d been denied both.

Vaguely she became aware that Yennefer’s teeth were chattering, and she looked over at the other sorceress. She did not wish to risk losing her footing on the frozen, uneven ground, nor did she think Yennefer would appreciate being stared at, so she kept her glance brief.

None of them, except perhaps Triss, had been suitably dressed for battle, but Philippa had assumed Yennefer would – like the rest of them – have cast some enchantment to make herself largely impervious to the cold. Looking at her now, rubbing her arms and shivering, she suspected that wasn’t the case.

Philippa spoke the words of the enchantment quietly, and to her relief they were quickly lost in the sound of the wind. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Yennefer’s head whip up sharply as her body took on the feeling of being wrapped up in a warm cloak.

“I... forgot,” Yennefer stammered in a tone of surprise.

Whatever Philippa had been expecting, it certainly wasn’t Yennefer admitting that her mind was in such turmoil that she’d forgotten she was a sorceress and could protect herself. She somehow thought Yennefer wouldn’t want to dwell on her strange lapse of memory, so answered shortly, “I assumed you were doing it to punish yourself for letting Cirilla go.”

Again she risked a glance at Yennefer. The sorceress was frowning. “If you thought I was doing it to punish myself, why did you stop me?” she snapped.

Philippa felt at that moment a searing hatred for Yennefer, for Geralt, for Cirilla, and most of all, she realised, for her own existence. Why had she volunteered to do this? To do any of this? The answer was not apparent. A rogue thought darted through her mind, and she tried to mentally swat it away. _It was easier being a fucking owl_.

That might have been true, in as much as her life hadn’t been in mortal danger every moment she’d been an owl, but that wasn’t to say it had been more pleasant. Her limbs still ached horrifically, and after months of seeing only in monochrome, the colours of the world seemed nightmarishly vivid, the snow blindingly bright even through her blindfold, and enough to make her eyes water. She’d barely eaten since she escaped from Dijkstra’s filthy clutches – and what little she had eaten she’d been unable to keep down once they’d started the journey to Skellige, although she quite intended to allow everyone to believe it was not she but Margarita who couldn’t stomach the waves – and that, combined with the exhaustion which always followed performing strong or complex magic, was making it hard to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other without falling, let alone anything else. The sudden rush of hatred, therefore, had left her feeling even weaker than before.

“You’re no use to anyone frozen to death,” Philippa responded eventually. The frigid wind was making her lungs ache with every breath she took. All around them was snow, ice, and rocks, nothing more; a landscape so starkly black and white that she felt fleetingly like she’d lost her ability to see in colour again. A sudden chill about her bare shoulders startled her, and from Yennefer’s sideways glance she knew the other sorceress had immediately realised what was wrong; she was too drained to keep using her magic.

Yennefer spoke the words of the enchantment this time, returning the earlier favour and not drawing attention to Philippa’s weakness. They continued on in silence, Philippa subtly moving a few steps closer to Yennefer so they might share what little body heat they had.

With a sound so soft that Philippa was surprised she’d heard it, Yennefer stopped dead as though she’d hit a wall. “I hope you don’t think that by doing this you’re entitling yourself to demand Ciri be part of the reformed Lodge?” she asked sharply, frustratedly pushing her wild, dark hair back from her face. Philippa felt quietly smug that her braids were keeping her hair from being tossed and tangled by the wind. “Because it won’t work. I won’t allow it.”

It had been too much to hope that they could form a reluctant truce for an hour or two.

“It’s not your choice,” Philippa snapped, swiping furiously at the tears running down her cheeks from the stinging wind, “Cirilla is a grown woman. But as I’m sure you know, she turned down my offer. I’m doing this for purely selfish reasons, as I’ve already stated a number of times, Yennefer.”

She turned away, wanting to get on with continuing their ridiculous journey. Two horses stood – curiously unharmed – in front of them, pawing the ground nervously. This was where the witcher and Yennefer had ridden to together, quickly abandoning the horses, neither being in a fit state later to think about retrieving them. She’d heard the story in minute detail from both Geralt and Yennefer when they returned, each filling in the other’s blanks.

The small scramble needed to reach the next part of the path seemed like an almost insurmountable climb, and Philippa’s head was beginning to pound. Wordlessly, Yennefer took hold of her and portalled them up. It was a tiny distance, too short to put them at any risk, and Philippa was deeply grateful for it.

Once they were on solid ground again, Yennefer let go of her as though she’d been burned. “Forgive me for not believing you, given your extensive history of lying,” she said, continuing their conversation as though there had been no interruption. It was better for both of them that way; ignoring the other’s weaknesses, whether physical or emotional, meant they didn’t have to acknowledge their own.

The wind was stronger here, strong enough to pick up Philippa’s braids and whip them into her face with the feeling of being hit by a length of damp rope. A series of tiny glances told her that Yennefer was faring even worse, her vision almost entirely obscured by a thick curtain of dark, tangled hair which blew continuously back into her eyes almost the second she pushed it away.

They were getting closer to the peak, around them wide open vistas instead of endless rocks and snow. On the horizon, Philippa could just make out another of the isles, and although she lacked the knowledge to recognise which it was, she didn’t particularly care either. They rounded a corner, and suddenly Tor Gvalch’ca rose up in front of them, as though it grew out of the very mountain itself.

It had been grand once, and in some sad, lonely way it still was, if one liked elven architecture. The tower was mostly in tact, although the glass from the windows was long gone, and she wondered off-handedly whether perhaps there had never been any there, for surely even the most toughened, strengthened glass would have been no match for the fierce gales battering anything which did not lie entirely flat on the ground.

The decimated remains of a rose window sat astride the ruin like a crescent moon, but there was little else to mark it out from any other elven architecture Philippa had seen in her life. What had befallen the tower? Were the elves driven out, or did they simply abandon it? Philippa stumbled on a loose chuck of rock, and Yennefer grabbed the back of her dress, yanking her upright again before she could fall. “Fucking tower,” Philippa muttered, aiming a swift kick at another lump of rock, and resolved that the elves had definitely abandoned the tower because of the obscenely ridiculous and treacherous effort needed to reach it.

“We’re almost there,” Yennefer said, her voice trembling and her eyes damp. Or perhaps her voice was simply distorted by breathlessness, and her eyes were brimming with tears from the cold and wind.

“I can see that we’re almost there, I do have eyes,” Philippa snapped. Caught up in her smouldering anger, the words left her mouth before she could stop them, and the silence following her faux pas stretched for what felt like a lifetime. “That was a poor choice of words on my part. You may laugh,” she said after a moment or two of thought. Yennefer snorted a laugh and the tension between them lessened fractionally. “Are you sure you want to do this?” Philippa asked, her single concession to checking on Yennefer’s wellbeing.

Having thus far led their charge like a queen leading her troops into battle, Yennefer’s resolve seemed to be wavering now that they were close. Cirilla was gone, entirely gone, the witcher had confirmed it, and yet the reluctance and hesitation radiating off Yennefer suggested she still half expected to come across the girl’s lifeless body at every turn. “You aren’t going to discourage me now,” Yennefer growled, tossing her hair for what seemed like the millionth time. She glanced at the crumbling steps before her, more densely-packed snow than stone at this point, and slowly began to climb. Facing into the wind, her hair suddenly whipped back with such fury that Philippa took a step backwards.

“I was merely trying to offer you a little support, given that you seem about to unravel completely,” Philippa responded, “but you needn’t worry, the moment has passed, and I shan’t feel inclined to do it again.” In front of her, Yennefer let out an undignified grunting noise as she lost her footing on a patch of ice, nails scraping harshly against the rough stones of a cairn which she tried to grab onto for support. Philippa stepped smartly to the side, knowing that if Yennefer slipped again, her – not insubstantial – boots could end up colliding with Philippa’s ankles and probably breaking a few bones. She waited until Yennefer had righted herself and carried on, not willing to risk her own tenuous balance. Her head was still throbbing, the altitude and bitter cold doing nothing to ease it.

The winding path was surrounded by jagged rocks, and sheeted in snow they looked disconcertingly like the teeth of an enormous beast. A few times Philippa almost lost her own footing and only through sheer bloody-mindedness did she manage to stay standing. Finally, they reached the tower itself, Yennefer letting out a soft gasp – whether from emotion or breathlessness, Philippa didn’t really care – the moment they stood on the relatively flat and untouched stones.

The view would be magnificent on a clear day, although Philippa still couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Undvik would remain under a perpetual winter and never see another clear day for the rest of eternity. Yennefer was already making her way up the steps into the heart of the ruin, and Philippa allowed herself a minute to appreciate the sheer scale of the construction before she followed. From the number of extravagant gothic windows she could count, the tower would easily have had four or five floors when it was complete, and despite the destruction and the weathering, it still retained an air of majesty.

Dizzy from craning her neck and staring into the sky, Philippa returned her attention to following Yennefer. Slowly. Around the steps were patterned stones, cracked and dirty and sprouting thin grasses, but still doggedly holding on to the remnants of their attractiveness, and she paused to give them a moment of appreciation. After all, Yennefer didn’t need her help with anything, so there was certainly no rush. She didn’t have any desire to be privy to the sorceress’ emotions as she desperately searched for something the witcher might have missed, some way they could tell where Cirilla had gone. For although Philippa didn’t hold Geralt in anything like high esteem or even respect, she knew enough to be assured that he wouldn’t have left the tower unless he was absolutely convinced that Cirilla was not coming back.

If Philippa had considered what might happen when they reached the tower, Yennefer collapsing to her knees under the weight of her grief and sobbing uncontrollably was not it. And they were not the light, crystalline tears which sorceresses were taught to use to manipulate people. They were tears of heartbreak, dragged from the ugly place deep inside where the worst betrayals and hurts and losses are allowed to fester and breed.

“Get up,” Philippa commanded dispassionately, “there’s nothing more pathetic than a weeping sorceress.” In truth, Yennefer’s pain was so achingly real that it was impossible not to feel some measure of it herself, which was something she found deeply, deeply uncomfortable and wanted to prevent. She reached out a hand, hoping that if she could encourage Yennefer up from the floor she might stop crying, and for a heartbeat or two, it seemed like Yennefer would ignore her. As she was about to walk away, she felt frozen fingers close around hers, and reached out her other hand too, knowing she was far too weak to pull Yennefer up with just one hand.

It took more strength than she expected, leaving her feeling slightly winded. To Philippa’s surprise, Yennefer didn’t let go of her hands immediately, the reason for which quickly became obvious when her legs began to tremble and she grabbed onto Philippa to prevent herself from collapsing again. It was instinct and nothing more which made Philippa wrap her arms around Yennefer to support her, and the moment she’d done it, she realised how shockingly intimate the embrace felt. It was an incredibly long time since she’d been so close to another woman for a non-sexual reason.

She could feel that Yennefer was still crying, although her sobs had thinned and quietened, but with each sob, Philippa could feel something trying to break free within herself, no matter how many times she tried to force it down. Her own pain – as much as she tried to deny its existence – yearned for the same release that Yennefer’s had been allowed.

The loss of Sheala, the knowledge of how she had suffered in the weeks before her eventual, merciful death, weighed heavily on her mind. That she’d had Rita with her was a small comfort at least, but even so, it didn’t sit well with Philippa to know that Sheala had been so broken and hopelessly desperate that she’d begged the witcher to kill her and end her misery. Most days, it simply made Philippa determined to hunt down and destroy every witch hunter who’d ever so much as laid eyes on Sheala, but sometimes the loss cut her as keenly as a knife. She was almost so numb from the cold that when the first tears seeped beneath her blindfold and ran down her cheeks, she barely noticed them.

But at least in death Sheala had found – she hoped – some relief. Unlike Rita, who awoke screaming and sobbing in the night, who flinched away from any unexpected touch, who barely ate and some days couldn’t keep so much as a slice of bread down. It was for Rita, captured only because she was trying to lead her beloved students to safety, that Philippa’s heart – if she had one – truly broke. More than once she had held the other woman close, for lack of knowing any other way to comfort her, and let her own tears fall into Rita’s hair. Still, it was nothing like the torrent of weeping Yennefer had unleashed, and she didn’t feel any kind of relief from it.

But no, if she was going to allow herself to lose control of her emotions, it wouldn’t be in front of Yennefer. If she could help it, it wouldn’t be in front of anyone. And yet, perhaps Yennefer was the only person who _would_ understand. After all, they were more similar than either liked to admit, preferring to manipulate rather than befriend people, only seeing someone’s value if they were useful in some personal or political game. And now they both found themselves drowning in the same unfamiliar feelings, with no idea how to deal with them. Loss, emptiness, grief for the pain and suffering caused to someone they loved. Cirilla, Rita, Sheala…

The strangled sob wrenched from Philippa’s throat was the sound of purest misery, and rather than risk her expression being seen, she buried her face in Yennefer’s shoulder. Perhaps out of instinct, perhaps out of quiet gratitude for supporting her, Yennefer’s arms came around her, and they held each other, silent save for the sound of soft crying. Once that first sob had broken the dam, Philippa couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. She kept her face in Yennefer’s shoulder, pressed against the expensive but dirty, battle-scarred fabric of her dress, hiding her emotions even though she knew the heaving of her chest would give her away.

She cried for Sheala, she cried for Rita, she cried even for the sense of anticlimax that losing Cirilla had brought, and because her selfishness was never too far from the surface, she cried for herself too. For so many months she’d let white-hot fury and an obsessive need for murderous vengeance burn away any fear or pain she’d felt, letting her convince herself she was coping. But although she could see passably well with magic now, it had never just been about her sight. She wanted back what that bastard Radovid had taken from her, no matter what she had to do.

But she was tired, so fucking tired, after months of making no progress. She could never evade detection long enough to do any real work, having to pack up and move at short notice and in the dead of night inevitably meant that papers were lost, experiments were ruined, and as much as she wanted everyone to think she was coping, the truth was somewhat far from it.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about Cirilla,” Philippa said quietly, voice raw from sobbing and throat burning from trying to choke in the frigid air as she wept. She tried to pull back from the embrace, but Yennefer’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around her, so she stayed where she was. Admittedly it was easier to talk when they weren’t facing each other.

When she spoke, Yennefer’s voice was heavy with emotion and weariness. “I’m so sorry about Sheala. Geralt would have made it painless, I promise. It was...it was bad, Philippa.” Her voice shook, and Philippa wondered what could possibly have affected Yennefer quite so much. “Please don’t think we did it to try and stop you reforming the Lodge or something. She asked for an end, and I... You’d have done the same if you were there.”

Philippa was surprised to realise that she believed Yennefer. And she truly was glad there had been someone to help Sheala at the end. Dying by a witcher’s skilled hand was undoubtedly preferable to death at the hands of witch hunters.

“And if there’s any help you need with Rita, you can ask. Truly. We’ve lost too much to...” Her voice trailed off into nothing, but the meaning was clear. Yennefer was holding out the proverbial olive branch. It was all the more unsettling for seeming to be an entirely genuine offer.

And although Philippa still couldn’t quite admit that she needed help – perhaps fortunately, as Yennefer’s offer didn’t seem to extend to her needs – she was grateful for anything anyone could do to help her support Rita’s recovery. “I appreciate that,” she said, and meant it. A strange, but not entirely uncomfortable, silence stretched between them after her words. It felt a little like a corner had been turned. After a few more seconds, it felt natural to break apart from their embrace. Not wanting the moment to sour and become awkward, Philippa said the first thing which came into her head. “It’s cold up here.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering why Philippa had felt the need to point out something so obvious, and smothered a laugh. “Yes, I suppose it is. We should go, but I’m glad we came.” She half turned away, glancing one last time at Tor Gvalch’ca, and Philippa saw her lips form Ciri’s name silently. Her hair blew into her face and obscured the rest of her words from view.

“Wait,” Philippa said, biting her lip in concentration as she fiddled with her braids. After a moment, she handed Yennefer a piece of ribbon to tie her hair back with.

Yennefer didn’t say thank you, because in the face of all that had passed between the two sorceresses, it seemed an impolitely small acknowledgement. Instead, she looped her arm through Philippa’s so they could walk close together for warmth and steadiness, and perhaps another reason too, one which only on pain of death would they admit was comfort. Both knew that they would let go and return to sniping once they got within sight of Geralt and the others, but that was okay. The truth could stay between them and the weathered stones of Tor Gvalch’ca, tucked away on a frozen island in Skellige, forever.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this entire thing came from me being utterly mesmerised by the scenery at Tor Gvalch’ca, and also the image of Yennefer falling to her knees, sobbing, and Philippa telling her to get up.
> 
> It turns out that Philippa's line "there's nothing more pathetic than a weeping sorceress" is something I half remembered from another fic, rather than made up myself, unfortunately! So go read the fantastic and very angsty 'Absolution' by HatshepsutAgrippina, as that's where I got the idea from, even though I didn't remember it at the time!


End file.
